The Famish'd Bitch

 
I could hear your demise
 unravel, from the floor of
 your brain.
 Along with icy clusters
of forget me not it's blossoms
 withered
They twitch, with the air blue,
while it quivers, under
banished sunlight.
 
Glitter sticks on your lip
while laughter spills out,
like a tangled fern or a
 grieving dove that sits
on your aching groin.

Your leftovers retrieved
from the boneyard by the
drug induced maiden.
The  famish'd bitch, her
 appetite slick with the
ointment of pitch.

Shadows of you fall amongst
sepulchers and cypress bent,
 disheveled and unshaven
you lie slumped
onto the log of fruited fig

Your heart no longer throttled
 rests in hopelessness as
a wooden puppet with broken
strings serves you crystal clear
 water from a chipped
 demitasse cup.